Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. "He can't get out. ” “Fine. ” She muttered some unlady-like comment upon herself under her breath and engaged in secret additions. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning.
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